


stings like frostbite

by radregeneration



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Repressed, Love Confessions, Nonbinary Character, Other, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28603833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radregeneration/pseuds/radregeneration
Summary: "-hear me. You're side is bleeding, do you want me or Wynne to heal it?"Alistair reasoned the blood loss made him out of it, out of breath when he sighed, almost dreamily- definitely not dreamily, "You. You, you, Dion."
Relationships: Alistair/Amell (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 3





	stings like frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> nonbinary warden baby!!! amell uses they/them but also refers to themself as a lady. gender ok 
> 
> warnings for brief description of a wound, spell causing out of it behavior, brief references to abuse of mages.
> 
> both of them are emotionally repressed but especially amell
> 
> also no spell check or proofreading or beta we post like idiots

Amell's touch was icy, so cold it stung when they offered a hand to Alistair. The templar accepted the hand, wincing at the cold. When the two stood face to face, Amell looked up into Alistair, their black eyes reflecting the moonlight like a cat. Their gaze made him look away self consciously, look at their mouth instead, pale skin, dark moles, pink lips were moving. Drawn in a slight frown, concerned. When they placed a hand on the back of Alistair's neck, the cold shocked him into focus. 

"-hear me. You're side is bleeding, do you want me or Wynne to heal it?" 

Alistair reasoned the blood loss made him out of it, out of breath when he sighed, almost dreamily- definitely not dreamily, "You. You, you, Dion." 

Amell's eyes narrowed slightly, and they removed their hand from Alistair's neck, and he missed it, missed the cold and the numb, "Alright, sit down- not here, away from the darkspawn corpses." 

Blood flowed back to Alistair's neck, warming him up, and he didn't like it. He nodded and impulsively grabbed Amell's hand, "For support, I don't think.. think I can make it on my own." 

"Alright," they replied and squeezed his hand, sending chills up his arm and to his brain. With a hand on his uninjured side, Amell led Alistair back to the camp, where the other companions retired to after the skirmish. 

They sat him on a log, and Alistair laid back on the dirt, making grabby hands for Amell. They sighed and sat on the ground next to him, by his injured side. With careful hands, careful not to graze his wound, they removed the armor on his arms and torso. 

"Hey, hey, it's not- not proper for me to undressed in front of a lady!" Alistair protested, grabbing Amell's hands again. Cold, cold, cold. Like their eyes. He had to look away again. Burying his cheek in the dirt, he hoped it would hide his blush. 

"The other ladies aren't looking and I'm your healer right now," they made a choked noise that Alistair knew was their attempt at a laugh. Hands, unusually warm- whether for Amell or a regular person, Alistair couldn't tell- touched his side, still clothed by his thick tunic. The wound knit itself back together, flesh weaving with itself in an itchy way, usually much for painful. Amell grunted, a shout of frustration for the mage, "The emissary must have hit you with a disorientation spell. Explains the delayed reaction time that let you get hit and the," they finished healing the wound and put the back of their hand, too hot, to Alistair's forehead, too little contact, "general neediness. Not truly powerful enough to actually scramble your brain, but enough force behind it to last awhile. Possibly a few hours." 

Alistair didn't understand much of that besides "spell bad, cold hand good," but he might have added the last part in himself. With a grunt, he sat up straight, then touched his side. It was healed but scarred over, covered in dry blood. His own hands burned him. His focus returned to the spell, "Can you do anything for, uh, it?" 

"Entropy is not my field of focus, it's more of Morrigan's," Amell looked over to where the witch was bickering with Oghren over avoiding spells in fights. Alistair didn't want her to treat him, put her hands on him or use her magic. He didn't trust her, she didn't like him. Whatever interest she had in ending the Blight left no room for making friends. They noticed the panic apparent on his face and added, "But she inflicts, not removes. I don't imagine she has counters for her own spells memorized. Wynne is a better healer than me, I will go get her." 

"I don't want Wynne," Alistair whined, fluttering his eyes closed for a breath moment. They opened up to see Amell staring at him in concern, brows furrowed in worry. He blinked a few times, then tried to keep the pleading out of his voice, "I want you, Dion." 

"I.. alright, let me.. let me ask her what to do, at least," they were clearly out of their element, specializing in protective, conjuration, and some elemental spells. They knew few healing spells, even less entropy spells. Alistair would have felt bad for asking this of them, if he was thinking straight. The mage called over Wynne, who was telling Zevran to get rest after she gave him an injury kit and a healing spell for a concussion. The rogue was as usual insisting he was fine. Wynne realized he wasn't going to take her advice, so she left to be at Amell's side. Alistair shifted impatiently, like a child being scolded despite Wynne not even speaking to him yet. 

"Were you injured, dears?" She asked as she knelt beside the two, looking over them for injuries. She couldn't find anything more than the blood-soaked tear in Alistair's tunic, the wound already healed by Amell. 

"Alistair was hit by an emissary's disorientation spell. He is fine, except for minor symptoms of confusion," Amell droned, as if reading off a report. Whenever they were around circle mages- even Wynne, especially Wynne- any signs of emotions were cut off, almost as a defense mechanism. Hide emotions, any sort of disobedience. Alistair didn't like it, he didn't like when the small wrinkles of concern on their brows disappeared, as if they were never there. 

Wynne nodded, then passed a warm hand, glowing yellow, over Alistair's forehead. Alistair involuntarily gasped, as he felt like a cloud was forcibly extracted from his head. Coughing, he was light-headed, he couldn't hear the conversation between the mages. His ears were ringing, everything sounded as if he was underwater. After some time- a few seconds? a few minutes? an hour?- he heard what they were saying. 

"-thing warm, like tea and soup. He shouldn't fall asleep for at least a few hours, to ensure there are no remaining symptoms. Keep an eye on him." 

"Thank you, Wynne." 

"You're welcome, Dionysius." With that, the older mage stood and left where the two sat, sparing one last glance at them before retiring to her tent. 

"Are you feeling fine?" Amell turned to Alistair and took his hands in theirs, cold thumbs stroking over his fingers. His brain short circuited, focus now solely on the contact between them. 

He took a few embarrassing moments to fumble his way through a response, hoping it sounded coherent enough to sound like he still wasn't under the effects of the spell, "I'm good- really good, um, actually. Thanks to you, and, uh, Wynne. Wynne, too. Both of you healed me up good and thank you, and good night." 

Amell's lips twitched, and oh, Alistair was looking at their lips. Pink, full, always neutral at best. The occasional flicker of something akin to amusement or disgust playing on the mage's lips. Alistair licked his own lips, eyes darting up to their eyes. Dark, almost black, and oddly reflective of light at night, like Alistair's. Like elf eyes. Amell's lids were heavy, eyelashes thick and curly, dark smears framing dark eyes. A large mole sat close to their left eye, near the tear duct. He licked his lips again. Then looked down at their hands. 

"Wynne said you need to rest, but not sleep." Their response was kind, kinder than they usually were. Less cold and calculated, like Alistair had melted the ice. He knew that was silly, but maybe there was some truth to it. 

"Oh! Of course. I need to, um, eat dinner and wash up and, uh, yes." He rambled until Amell gently squeezed his hand, a harsh sting- intentional, meant to shut him up? accidental, fumbled attempt at affection? He shut up nonetheless. 

"Yes, of course. Let's make dinner." 

After dinner- who knew you could make stew out of wolf meat? not Alistair!- and a few cups of lavender tea, Alistair was sufficiently tired, but Amell insisted the two take the first watch. He didn't object, eager to spend more time by the mage's side. Away from the prying eyes of the companions he developed the courage to present them with a gift. 

He carefully took the rose out of his pack, wincing at its crushed and dried appearance. Realizing this was stupid, but not having any better ideas, better gifts, to show his affection, he handed it to Amell. Who scrutinized the crumpled flower in their hand. 

He hurriedly explained how it was found in Lothering, how it was so beautiful despite the surrounding despair, like how Amell was such a beautiful lady in the midst of the wretched Blight. Both seemed so unreal. 

Amell whispered something small, and the flower glowed briefly then flourished, full of life. With a flash of light blue light, it was instantaneously frozen in their hands. Alistair realized he was being stared at and pulled his eyes away from the rose, instead looking into Amell's eyes. They spoke in hushed tones, voice breathy, "Thank you, Alistair. No one has ever.. just given me a gift. Especially not a gift with such thought and sentiment. I am afraid.." and the panic Alistair felt for a moment was indescribable, ".. that I cannot adequately return the affection. It is not that I do not like you.. It is only that I cannot bring myself to express any affection. I can only hope you can understand, as a Templar.. I believe, well.. Thank you." 

Alistair nodded dumbly. He understood how the mages were trained as if they were inanimate objects. Understood that repression of emotions and romance and relationships. Despite the understanding it hurt, he had foolishly thought he could melt the ice. And maybe he still could in time. With patience, love, devotion, if Amell would have him. He would give anything to have them. 

Instead of thinking any further, he took the rose, carefully dethorned by him in advance, and placed in behind Amell's ear. The white-blue petals matched the white strands in their bangs and contrasted the jet black of the rest of their hair. He smiled at them, at their simple yet so complex beauty. Ignoring the pinpricks of tears, he took their hand in his and wished them goodnight, "Thank you, Dion."


End file.
